


empurata

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Empurata, Gen, Multi, Slow Burn, TF: Prime canon mixed with IDW canon, gender neutral reader, shadowplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 15:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: if(goingToCrashIntoEachOther){don’t();}
Relationships: Shockwave/Reader
Comments: 125
Kudos: 392





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Due to popular demand, this is now a longer work-in-progress with planned multiple chapters! Tremendous thanks to those who encouraged me to keep writing. Y'all just love Shockwave so much.

The moment you found yourself elbow-deep in the circuits and wiring of a twenty-foot tall mech from freakin’ outer space, you knew that there was no turning back.

First contact happens in the middle of a grocery run when triggered alarm systems ping your phone. You expect to find burglars making off your flatscreen or mini-fridge. Instead, the dumbass you now affectionately call Wheeljack is leaking black and blue all over the floor of the abandoned boxing gym-turned-garage workshop (yeah, it’s a mouthful but one-of-a-kind). The scarred mech remembers Autobot protocol for all of three seconds when he sees you, and then pushes the welding torch over.

Fixing his comms and severed neural networks, which would have taken Ratchet half a day to accomplish-- stasis, surgery, and recovery combined-- you finish in a fraction of the time. A regular sized wrench is probably the equivalent of a sewing needle for Cybertronians.

However, emergency visits are few and far in between.

First contact is reduced to a stack of spare Energon crates in the corner of the workshop, Agent Fowler and a handful of teenagers (kids, really) kept banging at your garage workshop, hollering about _Team Prime_, and the occasional Bumblebee blasting “In Your Eyes” at odd hours.

Not so bad.

* * *

Humans categorize life as a series of stages. There’s hit singles like _Before_ and _After_ and _In Hindsight_. As you park next to the jagged silhouette surrounded by destroyed cell towers and powerhead lines, _Déjà vu_ nips at your footsteps. You grab a toolkit from the backseat, and then head towards the downed Cybertronian.

Two legs, two arms, an abdomen and a head cavity. Its left arm resembles a laser cannon in permanent form, along with a fractured cable which slots underneath the broad chest armor. All intact. It’s not quite as tall as Optimus Prime, closer to twenty-five in length, but there’s obvious strength in its dense armor and width. Dozens of powerlines spark idly on the ground and around its prone form, and by the numerous arc flash burns coating its matte finish, it must have been shocked with more than fifty thousand volts. Less than fifty can electrocute a person.

Safety first. Find the core power generator. Switch it off. Poke the powerlines to test if they’re still live.

You switch on the truck’s headlights to chase away the growing shadows and after a pause, turn up the radio. A familiar song kicks through brief moments of static.

Upon return to the Cybertronian, you smack the sole of its foot with a wrench and the resounding vibrations travel all the way to your molars. Still unresponsive. Best to kickstart its Spark and wait for consciousness. You dig your fingers into the seams between its panels and climb, wriggle, and wrestle your way over to the slanted torso.

Ratchet’s rudimentary course on robot anatomy advised that default-locks were the least violent method of opening up a patient for surgery. You find one on the inside of the right elbow and watch as the exterior armor fold away. An acrid, burning smell wafts from within and you cover your mouth with an oil-stained cloth. The ruin of fifty thousand volts. Gloves. Definitely need gloves.

At least the Spark is intact. Its luminescence is muted amidst blackened and fried wires, but it remains a light source as you push past the charred insides.

“Power, Motor, Comms, Receptors,” you repeat to yourself as you dig through your kit for an Energon canister.

The Spark’s power is dormant yet steady. Motor cables were severed in some places; electrical tape can be a temporary fix until you get your hands on a welding torch. The communication systems seemed offline. As for receptors, you wouldn’t have an idea until you inject the Energon canister directly into its Spark. You hum distractedly along to the now-distant lyrics.

“Better you than me, pal,” you say and pat the robot’s metal interior. Then you raise the canister high and stab its tapered end into the Spark, depressing the plunger as quickly as possible. Moments later, all remaining functions suddenly roars to life and the Cybertronian thrashes wildly, knocking you around the compartment.

Low, guttural growls mixed with static spill into the air. It’s not long before the mech realizes there’s someone rooting around its chest and you hear metal groan and screech as it struggles to lifts its nonfunctional limbs, further hampered the thick, tangled powerlines. Every jostled motion further crushes the damaged gears before your eyes.

“Don’t move!” you shout. “Don’t-- I’m a mechanic, I know what I’m doing, and I’m helping you! I have one hand wrapped around your Spark and none of your adjacent ports have power. Can you speak? Can you hear me?”

Another desperate surge rocks through its body and you nearly faceplant into the reanimated Spark.

“Jesus Christ, stop moving! Are your audial receptors working? What about a voice processor?”

The Cybertronian stops writhing. And its voice-- gods, its _voice_\-- threatens to deafen you, thundering and deep, on the brink of resembling an automated script. “Affirmative to both counts,” it relents.

“Sensors?”

“Affirmative.”

“Optics?”

A pause. “Negative. It sustained significant damage.”

“Okay. I’m going to assess your optic nerves. Afterwards, I can tend to your motor processing systems. I just need you to remain as still as possible. Does that sound all right?”

A longer pause ensues. “Proceed.”

Unlike your previous encounters, this robot doesn’t resemble a humanoid. Its head is angular with a singular optic as large as a hubcap. Hooking your legs on either side of its neck, you can feel the shift of each inhale and exhale of the living metal. The Cybertronians you knew didn’t have blasters for arms either.

Using a penlight, you shine down its cavity and see evidence of ionized burn marks. Either the United States government suddenly upgraded its tech by an aeon, or this guy scrapped with another member of his species. “I’ve never had to repair optics before,” you admit. “But if we repair your comms, will you be able to receive proper help?”

“Yes.” The mech shifts and creaks-- you realize that it’s a sigh, world-weary and resigned. His words come slow, thought-out. Logical. “You are a human, a member of the planet’s mammalian species. You utilize terms relevant to Cybertronian anatomical features. Humans cannot possess this knowledge without prior encounters with my species.”

“You’re not the first dinged-up robot I’ve come across,” you answer while fishing around for electrical tape in your overalls. You hop back into the interior and start working on motor cables. No matter the finish or the personality, all of these mechs looked the same on the inside. “Do you have a designation? What do I call you?”

“Shockwave.”

With poor improvisation and the sheer force of willpower, Shockwave manages to arrive at your workshop and then promptly collapses, blindly knocking over ladders and benches thanks to his width. The purple and silver mech presses himself in a corner, head swiveling rapidly. He strains his audial receptors.

“I would report,” he announces stiffly, fins flaring, “I do not trust these premises. I find a thoroughly inadequate design for Cybertronian life forms.”

“Yeah? I don’t have comment cards, but what would you recommend?” you ask as you emerge from a closet, arms filled with various colored wires. Bracing against Shockwave’s knee, you deftly plug them into his navigation and communication systems. You take a moment to study the remains of his interior; the exterior damage looks worse under the bright fluorescent lights but fortunately it’s mostly superficial.

Shockwave pays no attention to your examination. His fingers scrape against the linoleum floor. “You proclaim that you can treat my species yet have no space prepared for an event such as this. It demonstrates a lack of foresight.”

“The last time I messed with a bot, it was two months ago.” You wire into his systems through your laptop. Raf’s custom script begins to run its initial programs.

Shockwave’s head tracks the sound of your footsteps as you cross the garage and strip tinsel from a stack of Energon crates, scattering paper snowflakes from the makeshift holiday tree. As he clumsily wraps his fingers around a bucket of the liquid fuel, you focus on his navigation systems.

In the middle of recalibrating his internal mapping, a new directive abruptly appears in the lime green text.

_> unauthorized third port detected._  
_ > inquire designation_

“Shockwave?” you ask. “Would someone be able to remotely access your navigation system?”

The mech nods. “Commander and surveillance chief, Soundwave. I assumed he would initiate contact.”

> Hi. Shockwave sends his regards. I’m repairing his internal systems

_> inquire nemesis credentials_

Shockwave rattles off an array of numbers, which you enter dutifully and wait for a response.

_> credentials accepted._  
_ > shockwave is safe._  
_ > confirm?_

You watch as Shockwave pours some electric-blue Energon in a drawer-like shelf within his chest compartment.

It’s reminiscent of adding liquid detergent to a laundry machine.

> He’s safe

_> proceed._


	2. Chapter 2

You’d normally detest working in silence.

But Shockwave, deprived of his sight, is easily overwhelmed with the background clamor of music and television news. His low voice is strained as he politely requests you to deactivate the radio frequency promoting _Destination Mattress, Your Number One Premium Choice Mattress For A Good Night’s Rest_.

After you calibrate his navigation systems, the Cybertronian briefly links up with his friend, the one he calls Soundwave.

“Unfortunately, he is momentarily away from the _Nemesis_,” Shockwave drones, dragging the thick digits of his right hand along the floor, “and no one else aboard is competent enough to oversee the debriefing. Soundwave will be available to open a space-bridge in roughly one-eighth of a cycle. This translates to--”

“Two hours,” you say as you flick on the soldering torch and start repairing the fissions on his arm canon.

Shockwave twitches. “You demonstrate… adequate knowledge on Cybertronian terms.”

“Yep. Let me see the underside of the canon.” Superficial scratches. Nothing a little bit of sandpaper and polish couldn’t fix. You flip up the protective visor and squint up at the mech.

Perhaps sensing your curiosity, Shockwave’s shattered, broken gaze slowly turns in your direction. He says, “No one on the _Nemesis _has reported contact with an individual such as yourself. Therefore, I am not allied with the mechs you previously met.”

Something within his chest groans like old, creaking pipes in the winter chill. You set aside the torch and unceremoniously climb up on the mech’s huge legs, straining to reach for the chest cavity. Shockwave gently braces the back of his hand against your chest, pushing away your eager, helping hands. His touch and voice are firm: Softer than you could have imagined from someone so imposing.

“I am not an Autobot,” he tells you. “Your assistance is most illogical.”

You lift your gaze from the cracked plating barely concealing the glow of his Spark to the jagged shards of his single optic. “Does it bother you that I’ve helped Autobots?” you ask.

“It suggests that you are company to their cause,” Shockwave replies. “And they would not hesitate to eliminate me.”

“Under different circumstances, I would choose a side,” you admit, “but I’ve decided that I don’t owe my allegiance to either Autobot or Decepticon. I find broken bots, I fix them, and I send them home. If you’d like to pay for the electricity bill, by all means please--”

Shockwave leans forward abruptly, throwing his gaze an unnecessary five feet above your head, and says brusquely, “You assisted Cybertronians in their time of need and it is custom to return the favor. It is a great advantage to your personal benefit.” He sounds incensed, as if he’s angry at your charitable motivations.

“I don’t need favors,” you say after some thought, “because I don’t have enemies.”

* * *

With Shockwave slowly keeping in pace with your muddy red pickup truck, there is an unspoken question in the dust of your tracks. Early to the rendezvous point for the space-bridge, he crushes thorny brambles and barrel cacti with a sweep of his hand and kneels on the desert ground. Sitting on the roof of your truck, you’re almost level with his shoulders.

It is the brink of dawn. The midnight blues give way to smears of pink and orange, and morning wrens begin to wake and sing. You watch as Shockwave swivels his head side-to-side, flicking his fins to detect the sounds all around him. The crinkle of your jacket draws his attention and he leans closer and closer, curious and inquisitive.

Laughing, you push him away before he can knock you over; Shockwave responds to your slightest touch and retreats immediately.

“Do you think we’ll meet again?” you ask.

“Unlikely.” The mech pauses. “Yet I am in your debt.”

“Shockwave, I--”

“Refusing to collect favors is an irrational philosophy.” He flexes his fingers and shifts his shoulders irritably. The laser canon remains mostly defunct and limp at his side. Though he claims to be a scientist first and foremost, you guess that he is not unkind to solving problems with violence. “I do not understand your logic,” Shockwave says finally. “It is not in your best interest.”

“Shockwave,” you sigh, “do you really want me to call you in the middle of the night, asking if you could pick up a carton of milk for me? Do a grocery run or-- or drive me to the scrapyard?”

The mech takes a legitimate moment to consider the question. How methodical and calculated. “You believe that the favor will be inadequate when compared to the magnitude of my resources.”

“Uh, sure.”

Nearby, the air ripples like a mirage and then the space-bridge portal engulfs emptiness.

Two Decepticons emerge from the swirling mass: The first is spindly and thin, painted violet with crisp, clean black highlights. His face-- his _face_ is just an empty, glossy screen, and with the feeling of unease trickling down your spine, you’d bet that this is Soundwave. The other mech is more akin to the build of your Autobot acquaintances. He boasts his alt mode and crimson colors, and a sardonic smile stretches across his pale face; his eyes are piercing slits in pools of black.

Shockwave stands and, without even acknowledging you, begins to lumber towards the mechs. You watch wide-eyed as he greets them with an indignant, almost impatient attitude. His weight settles mostly on his back leg and he shies his damaged left side from the other bots. His words seem more clipped and frigid than normal.

“We thought you’d gone offline,” remarks the red Cybertronian in a tone that is neither relieved nor disappointed. Nonchalant, more so. “Imagine our surprise when your communications array popped up on Soundwave’s radar. Well, you’re mobile and half-way decently functional. The optic will obviously have to be replaced.”

The first dregs of sunlight streaks across the barren horizon. The mech’s keen gaze flicks past Shockwave and latches on your illuminated figure. Tiny, miniscule, and utterly human.

“Have you been making friends, Shockwave?” he drawls, grinning slyly. “Or is this one of your captors? I don’t recognize this particular one but then again, they all look alike. Might I get a closer look--?”

Shockwave’s fins bristle, though his tone remains monotonous. “Desist, Knockout. There are matters more important aboard the _Nemesis_.”

Knockout, unperturbed, shrugs, flashes you one more charming smirk, then strolls back to the space-bridge portal. The silent Soundwave follows suit with his eerily calm, loping gait. Shockwave takes slow, heavy steps after his allies. He pauses, and then looks back at you. A purely sentimental, emotional gesture coupled with his blindness.

How… impractical.

You may never see each other again but he’ll have traces of your presence. Spliced wires, neatly soldered sutures, and masking tape in various ports and appendages. You held his _Spark_ in your hands. You jammed a whole syringe of Energon into his life force. You brought him online.

Gratitude lingers in his fragmented frame, except Shockwave is not the type to profess thanks.

He’s simply not programmed that way.


	3. Chapter 3

TYPE: Transcript

PARTIES: Two [2]. Shockwave, Chief Science Officer [u.1] Soundwave, Communications and Surveillance Chief [u.2]

//AUDIO STORED//

//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[u.1: 00.01] How have the responsibilities aboard the _Nemesis_ transpired since my absence?

[u.1: 00.08] Affirmative. I was ambushed shortly after parting ways with Lord Megatron. He was to return to the _Nemesis_. I was committed to collecting samples in the terran valley. Ultimately the Autobots Wheeljack and Smokescreen overpowered me and submitted me to temporary stasis-lock. I hypothesize it was in due part to the human civilizations’ high-voltage structures the known as ‘power lines’.

[u.1: 00.35] I recovered in the care of a human who claims they are not allied with the Autobots.

[u.1: 00.40] Yes, logic permits me to believe this. The environment, behavior, and attitude suggest that they are a neutral party. I will inform Starscream however I see no reason to share all details. Knockout will be treated similarly.

[u.1: 00.45] Inquiry, Soundwave. Were you able to capture visual evidence of them?

[u.1: 00.55] Yes. I would like to see it.

[u.1: 00.59] No. I do not require additional surveillance.

[u.1: 01.04] I do not believe I have reason to return.

[u.1: 01.08] In the rare instance that I do, I will inform you of my intentions.

[u.1: 01.11] Please inform Lord Megatron that I will return to my station at the earliest convenience.

//END TRANSCRIPT//


	4. Chapter 4

The mercury on the wall thermometer finally drops to winter-appropriate temperature and in the desert, it might be enough to justify the sweltering summers. You throw on an orange windbreaker and a pair of gloves, and drag a table outside, hoping to enjoy a bit of fresh air while working on your next project. You bring the radio (a retro-styled one with an antennae) too and fiddle with the dial until pop music starts blasting.

Just when you’re jammin’ to a popular chorus, the radio goes on the fritz. You barely miss bludgeoning your thumb with a hammer as you watch the little dial spin through all the frequencies like a compass drawn to a magnet. Music and news become incomprehensible, nonsense noise.

A soft breeze picks up, the chill nipping at your skin, and then a space-bridge portal jolts into existence ten feet away.

Once more, heavy footsteps precede the silhouette of a Cybertronian. Your heartbeat rails against your ribs and you take a step towards the portal in a daze. Honestly? You thought you’d never see the one-eyed titan again in your lifetime, let alone two weeks past. “Shockwave?”

His name dies on your chapped lips when the mech emerges, scarlet-red and willowly and most definitely _not_ Shockwave.

The Decepticon tilts his head curiously and studies you with glittering, black eyes. “Sorry, doll,” he drawls, “Were you expecting someone else?”

He reaches for you with needle-like fingers and you shriek, turning tail to run. He grabs you by the jacket and dangles you in the air like some prized catch. _Oh god. Oh god. _There was an emergency beacon in the garage to signal the Autobots in case anything like this happened, but being manhandled obviously threw a wrench in that plan. You dimly realize you’re holding a hammer and with all your strength, throw it at him. _Dink!_ It bounces off and lands somewhere near the radio which had returned to your regularly scheduled programming.

“I applaud your valiant efforts,” the mech says dryly. He amusedly watches you wriggle and flail for a few more moments before he continues, “Now, the sooner you bring me Shockwave’s damaged hardware, the sooner I can leave you to your insignificantly short lifespan.”

At the mention of Shockwave, you freeze and slowly look up. Meeting his abysmal, slitted gaze sends shivers down your back. Still, you manage to stammer out, “Damaged hardware?”

“During your brave attempts to revivify him, you removed a crucial apparatus that-- well, you don’t need to know. Your understanding of Cybertronian anatomy is, at best, rudimentary.” _Rude._ Your terror of this brash English-speaking, English-accented Decepticon begins to fade into annoyance. “When I put you down, do you promise not to run away?” he asks.

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment. _Knockout._ That was his name, that was what Shockwave called him.

Knockout blinks.

Suddenly, he’s not as scary as he was when he first stepped through the space-bridge.

“Are you going to hurt me?” you ask.

“Hmph.” Then Knockout lowers you on the ground and gives you a light, firm push towards the garage. You automatically look towards the distress beacon at the far side of the room but quash the urge to escalate the situation. He hovers at the threshold, studying the interior with those strange cat eyes. “As much as I’d like to carve up your insides, I was ordered not to cause any significant distress. Suppose it was a _favor_ or something for saving his life. You must be good with your hands, doll.”

Words stick in your throat. Seems like Shockwave found a way to repay his debt after all. You quickly rifle through a box of discarded mech parts. Considering how you had the privilege to work on an alien species, you saved every piece of ruined scrap that crossed your path.

You glance at Knockout and his strikingly bright paint job. He picks up the radio and studies it. “If you’re, uh, not going to hurt me, you can come inside.”

Seemingly hyper focused on the radio, he obliges. Despite being twenty-something feet tall, he manages to change frequencies with ease. It richochets between old Broadway songs and sports news. You lay out the shattered, broken, burnt shards on the floor and Knockout occasionally checks if it’s what he needs. His precise, careful manners remind you of another mech.

He does a double-take at a discrete metal shard and his crimson pupils narrow. “As a doctor--” _He reminds you of Ratchet, _you decide-- “I know Shockwave wouldn’t have a prop shaft,” Knockout says, nudging it with his pede. “So why would you have one?”

“It probably came from another mech,” you reply as casually as possible. “Someone with a prop shaft.”

“Like a Cybertronian with a ground-alt mode.” His smooth voice practically drips with chagrin. “Like an _Autobot_.”

“Don’t you turn into a flashy red car?”

“I’m a rarity among Decepticons, doll, and I have all my parts.” Then he suddenly straightens up and puts down the radio. “Stop. You’re holding it.”

It stinks like burnt plastic. You wrinkle your nose and turn the charred piece of scrap over in your hands. It’s about the size of a fist. It looks vaguely like one of those reusable Keurig coffee cups. “What is it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Knockout reaches for it but you quickly hide the mysterious part behind your back.

“Try me.”

“Do you even know anything about shadowplay?” he asks exasperatedly.

“No. What is that?”

Knockout throws his hands in the air. “Stop asking questions! I don’t know how you charmed Shockwave, but I find you simply vexing!” The mech growls. “I don’t have time for this. You repaired Shockwave, that means you care for his recovery, yes? I need what’s left of _that_ to fix _him_.”

The problem with fixing and saving mechs was that now you were invested in keeping them alive. Same with Wheeljack, the Autobots, and Shockwave. Perhaps the Decepticon had been injured so severely that this chunk of metal was the only thing that could help him. Knockout knows your answer and holds out an expectant hand. You wordlessly give it to him.

Knockout immediately tucks it away in his subspace (an interdimensional pocket that you’ve yet to solve in human terms) and then offers you a terse nod. He turns to leave, pauses, and then snatches your radio. “I’m taking this with me,” he tells you, and then stomps out of the garage.


	5. Chapter 5

Because Wheeljack was the first bot you’d ever helped, the two of you often keep in contact. He would use the garage-workshop as a halfway house to the Autobot base. In fact, he was responsible for the stack of Energon crates for consumption and medical transfusions. Wheeljack liked to be on the move, though, so he set up a citizens band radio wired to a unique frequency. Most nights, he’d call in with a status report, even if you weren’t in the garage. You suppose he liked to talk to himself regardless of whether or not someone was listening in.

“This is Wheeljack reporting in from Dipshit, Nowhere,” he says, a slight, wry tone in his hoarse voice. “I’m tellin’ ya, kid, there’s nothing for miles, let alone an Energon deposit.”

You pick up the radio mic. “Heard loud and clear, Wheeljack. Dipshit, Nowhere.”

“Hey, kid. Everything all right on your end? Jeopardy night?”

Leaning back in the chair, you glance over to the television. “Rocks and Minerals, for $200.”

“Lay it on me.”

“‘Of the 3 major divisions of rocks, shale is classified as this’.”

Wheeljack doesn’t even hesitate. “Sedimentary. I thought these were supposed to be challenging questions.”

“Your species is meant to live for centuries, Jackie,” you say, propping your chin up on your hand. “That means y’all are evolved to have a memory bank that encodes more information than us tiny humans, not to mention the rate at which you download information from any network.”

“Love it when you talk science. You been reading Ratchet’s books?”

You flick your eyes over to the stack of datapads. “Some. There’s a lot of weird translations. Anyways, I’m more of a hands-on learner.” Chewing your lip, you think for a moment, then ask, “Hey, you know anything about shadowplay?”

Wheeljack sounds surprised. “Shadowplay? Where’d you pick up that term?”

“It’s in one of the texts,” you lie. Knockout’s voice burns in your memory but you know how Wheeljack would react to a Decepticon prowling in the area. “You’re a scientist. What does it mean?”

There’s a stretch of radio silence and you nervously drum your fingers on the scarred tabletop, watching the game show but not really paying attention to the questions that flash past. “It’s an old technique from long ago, before the war broke out on Cybertron. It’s a, uh, delicate matter.”

“Delicate?”

His engines rev loudly in the background. “Nasty stuff. I doubt you’ll ever find something as awful.” Wheeljack pauses. “Tell you what. I’ll send you a few texts-- unbiased, peer-reviewed-- and we can talk more when I come back in a few days.”

“You ever miss being a scientist?”

“Get your facts right, kid. I _ never _stopped being a smart-ass.” He chuckles. “Night. Over and out.”

“Good night, Wheeljack. Over and out.”

You stand and head to the kitchen to cook a quick late night bite when a latent burst of static crackles from the speakers. At the same time, the television screen flickers into the vapid, obnoxious snow like a poor reception. A familiar chartreuse glow and slow, heavy footsteps echo from the space-bridge portal. _ Déjà vu. _

Bracing yourself, you turn around to the hard, angular contour, the asymmetry of the war-built frame, and the cryptic, crimson gaze of his newly repaired optic.

Shockwave swivels his head to scan the surroundings, languid and measured and calculated. The Decepticon had been intimidating before but his cyclops-like scrutiny left you speechless and feeling… small. After a moment, he then regards your immobile form and kneels. He braces his palm against the smooth floor, the forearm as as long as the second-hand couch on which you promptly collapsed, stunned and, well, _ shocked _to see him again.

You hesitate to reach out and touch him, unsure if he is the same titan who left your workshop weeks ago. You wondered if you had imagined the wistfulness in his gestures. The potential for kindness in his careful manners.

“You came back,” you say softly.

The fins on his helm pull backwards. “This is correct,” Shockwave says, his voice richer and clearer than you remember, no longer hindered by damaged systems or uncertainties. “I did not come alone.”

The space-bridge portal pinches out like a candle flame, and in its place remains a lanky, lethal Decepticon with the empty face. He, like Shockwave, examines the garage, noting and recording every detail. The irritating static fades into a mumble of another familiar tv show. The invisible audience laughs, but there’s nothing funny about this terrifying Decepticon.

“Soundwave would like to observe, assess, and if necessary, minimize the risks of your present behavior,” says Shockwave. The silent mech, as if on cue, wanders over to the other side of the garage, occasionally looking over to the two of you. Neither con seem concerned with the peculiarity of the situation. “I assume you have questions regarding my recovery.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” you stammer. “I mean, how are you? Is everything--?”

“All systems are operative. Knockout performed as his responsibilities and skills deemed. It was at the conclusion of my repairs when he mentioned seeking your cooperation.” Shockwave’s tone remains level though a slight head tilt indicates his curiosity. “He also said that you anticipated my return.”

“Why _ did _you come back?”

_ Plink-plink! Plink-plink! _ Soundwave stirs a blunt digit into an open drawer filled with loose bolts, pauses, and then opens another drawer to repeat his process. He opens about four more drawers before Shockwave’s answers guides your attention back to him.

“Simply put, I would like to express my gratitude,” the Decepticon tells you. “Without your assistance, I believe I would have sustained irreversible damage. Despite the implications of our allegiances and the on-going conflict, I find myself indebted in the most logical, unusual bearing.”

You fidget with the couch pillows and try to wrap your head around the magnitude of his response. “I…” Your words trail off and watch Soundwave continue to diddle around your tools and workbench. “What do the others think?”

“Soundwave suggests it would be highly impractical to become allies due to your current correspondence to the Autobots. He also considers manipulating your relationship to the Decepticons’ advantage. Knockout agrees.” Shockwave speaks as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather. _Mild-mannered._ _Cloudy with a chance of a hostage situation. _“However--”

The expressionless mech lopes past. His fingers barely graze the top of your head, and though he is slimmer than most, his armor are like sheets of metal, razor-sharp and sleek.

“However,” Shockwave says again, “this is an opportunity to repay the favor. Because you are not an enemy, and as long as we are in good standing, you are under my protection. The Decepticons will refrain from interfering with your affairs. Pending on his evaluation, Soundwave is willing to sanction this. Do you accept this?”

Considering that the alternative was kidnapping and interspecies conflict? “I do.”

Shockwave seems satisfied. The tension drops from his shoulders and he glances over to Soundwave. There is a barely imperceptible nod from his associate before he turns his attention to the old television. Most of the static had faded but the image remains grainy like an old photograph. Soundwave goes round the screen and you swear something slips out from under his exoskeleton, like a wire or a cable. After a moment, the television resolution returns to normal, as new as the day it was bought.

_ “The sea was angry that day, my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli."_

Soundwave steps to the side and tilts his head at the screen. Even if he was the intelligence officer aboard the _ Nemesis _, he probably had little reason to watch human entertainment. All of their subtle jokes, pop culture references, and censored humor. “I, uh, I’m gonna make some popcorn,” you blurt out, feeling overwhelmed with the awkward tension in the room. Then you think about the popping noise and its similarities to gun fire. “Actually, I’m in the mood for ramen.”

“Inquiry: Shall we stay for the remainder of the cycle?” asks Shockwave.

“If you want to. You’re welcome to come and go but, uh, maybe give me a heads up when you activate a portal.”

“I will ask Soundwave to leave a communicator attuned to a personal frequency.” The Decepticon looks pointedly at Soundwave, who remains enraptured with the nightly _ Seinfeld _marathon. “Secondary inquiry: Do you want us to stay?”

Though his voice is level and deep, his returned gaze is something otherworldly. You almost wish that you could see him smile or frown, or ask why he is so different than the other Cybertronians, and what is _ shadowplay_, and why it was crucial for his recovery.

You have a million questions, so maybe if he stays, you’ll answer at least a couple of them.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Without a noise, without my pride _ _   
_ _ I reach out from the inside _

“I don’t think it’s loud enough, Bee,” Miko jokes as she lounges on the roof of Bulkhead’s alt mode. Bumblebee revs his engines again and cranks up the volume for the windows to start vibrating. You turn the corner with your hands over your ears and a half-eaten granola bar stuffed in your overalls.

_ In your eyes _ _   
_ _ The light the heat _

“Okay, okay! I’m here!” you yell, barely audible over the song. “Bumblebee!”

_ In your eyes _ _   
_ _ I am complete _

Bumblebee cuts off the song and lets out a string of whistles and beeps in a unmistakable giggle. “You’re lucky that I like you,” you threaten him lightly, placing a hand on the hood. Bumblebee whistles again. “Jackie’s back in town,” Bulkhead rumbles. “We thought you’d want to say hi.”

Miko slides off the roof and into the driver’s seat. “You can ride with Raf,” she shouts. Then Bulkhead and Miko take off, zero to seventy, blasting metallica in the empty desert. Further down the freeway, a ground bridge opens and they dive in without hesitation.

The sports car swings open his door to reveal Raf wholly distracted by his laptop. “Scoot over,” you tell him and he obliges. “Bee, you know any other songs besides  _ In Your Eyes _ ?”

Bee buzzes.

_ How do you call your lover boy? _ _   
_ _ Come here, lover boy _

The Autobot base lacks the presence of Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Smokescreen, and Arcee, who you assume are on a field mission. Ratchet is over by the med bay, holding a diagnostic scanner while a bored Wheeljack waits for the tests to finish. The Wrecker smirks when he sees you clamber out of the muscle car. Bumblebee transforms and dances to the final stanzas of the song, haphazardly making his way over to Bulkhead.

“Did I miss a movie marathon? Who showed Bumblebee  _ Dirty Dancing _ ?” you demand.

Ratchet waves his hand dismissively. “As long as their entertainment keeps them distracted and away from my work.” Ratchet tucks away the scanner and helps Wheeljack sit up. “Minor abrasions but nothing serious. You’re clear for active duty.”

“Thanks,” Wheeljack says. He nods at you, his scarred lips drawing in a smile. “Good to see you, kid. Hey, doc, actually you might be able to help us.”

Ratchet is already back by his workbench. “Hmm?” 

“Kid had questions about shadowplay.”

The medic’s frame tenses up. “That’s… a difficult subject.” Wheeljack gives you a knowing head tilt, like  _ I told you so. _ Ratchet checks to make sure that the younger bots are out of earshot, then he turns around with his arms folded across his chest. “What do you want to know?”

You jam your hands in your pockets, fiddling with random bits of lint and a granola wrapper. “Everything. The papers I read called it a ‘personality adjustment’, but I don’t understand it. Or why it would be significant to Cybertronian anatomy.”

“Shadowplay,” Ratchet says grimly, “was devised by a collective known as the Institute. Many participated in controversial scientific endeavors, especially due to the rising conflict between factions. But along with several other techniques, shadowplay was notorious as it targeted a mech’s brain module to effectively  _ brainwash _ them.”

Your gut twists. “Oh. What happens to the mech?”

Wheeljack interjects, “Hard to say. Political opponents were popular targets. Shadowplay eliminated their beliefs and their willpower to oppose the Senate. Others faded into obscurity without a sense of purpose.” The scientists exchange dark, worried looks. Wheeljack continues, “There were rumors of creating sleeper agents that would later be activated and attack whomever.”

Ratchet says, “But your question focused on its relationship to our anatomy. Evidently our brain modules are affected. Some claim the process is reversible but the effects on memory storage, emotional relays, and personality circuits are simply unpredictable.” Arching his eyebrows, Ratchet shrugs and says, “I, for one, believe it is possible.”

“As do I,” says Wheeljack. “But the mech before and after shadowplay could be entirely different individuals. There could be psychologically traumatic consequences. Oddly enough, the Institute never bothered to conduct such an experiment."

“But Cybertron is no more,” Ratchet says wearily, “and the Institute is nothing but a burden on our memory.”

It is not uncommon to see wistfulness or longing on the old medic’s face. He seems to carry the loss of their home planet more than anyone else. If it weren’t for Optimus Prime, you think Ratchet would search the stars for a way to revive Cybertron.

Conversation eventually drifts to less complex matters. Ratchet peppers you with his own questions to test your knowledge, and even uses Wheeljack as a living model to demonstrate joint calibration. The medic makes his leave to monitor the progress of the Autobots’ field mission and leaves you and Jackie to comfortable silence.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Life as usual. You?”

“On the road, as usual.” Wheeljack scratches his chin, deep in thought. “I’m supposed to take off in a bit. Tracking a trail before it goes cold.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Couldn’t decipher the frequency. Maybe it’s another ‘bot. Maybe a ‘con. Won’t know til I reach the end.” He stretches and glances down at you. “C’mon. I’ll drive you back. Lemme say adios to Bulkhead first.”

You can feel Ratchet’s winter-blue gaze linger as you climb into the racing car and shut the door. Though a ground bridge would bring you instantly home, Wheeljack would take the extra time to drive on the open, empty road. You fiddle with his radio and music from one of those “oldies but goldies” stations starts playing.

The glove compartment pops open and out slides a gleaming data pad. Wheeljack tells you, “More about shadowplay and Institute techniques.” He pauses. The steering wheel glides smoothly; the Autobot insignia glints in the sunlight. “Though I’m not sure about this sudden, morbid curiosity. Everything cool?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.”

“You sure?”

You trace the edges of the data pad and stare at your reflection. You know that shadowplay suggests that Shockwave had been ‘brainwashed’, but why? “You ever just… become overwhelmed with curiosity?”

The Autobot chuckles. “Have I ever. You got my number if you ever need backup. Or a lab partner.”

“Why, Wheeljack,” you say, “don’t tell me you’ve become a softie.”

“Shh, shh. Keep it between us.”

Wheeljack drops you off at your place, then disappears over the horizon. It might be weeks before you see him again.

You dawdle by the roadside, replaying and reciting conversations with a growing seed of guilt. Do the Autobots have a  _ right _ to know about the Decepticons who crossed your path? Is it a responsibility or an obligation to report these sightings? Or could you keep secrets if it prevents conflict? What if it means telling Shockwave about his shadowplay? Was he even aware? The more you question yourself, the more the guilt sinks heavier and heavier in your conscience.

And then the garage door behind you groans and rattles open at a snail’s pace. You whip around and stare at Shockwave kneeling on the ground with a digit on the button, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His crimson optic blinks, then dilates as he regards you with the same dumbfounded silence.

“Inquiry,” says Shockwave.

“Okay,” you reply.

“Are you familiar with the intricacies of a transformation cog?”

Straightforward and right to the point. Smiling a little, you walk into the garage and duck under his extended arm. His frame radiates heat absorbed from the sun. “Let’s find out. Close the doors. How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long. I anticipated your arrival but not of the Autobot.” You gesture for him to lie down on the linoleum floor and reveal his inner components. After a moment’s hesitation, his armor melts away and reveals his most vulnerable parts-- including his Spark chamber. You tug on a toolbelt and a pair of gloves, then climb up on his chest.

Your heels brace against the inside walls of his chest cavity. Shockwave doesn’t seem to mind. “The last time I saw this,” you comment, waving a hand at his wires, “it was a burnt mess.”

The Decepticon’s baritone voice sends tingling vibrations through your whole body. “It may be easier to navigate now.” He points at his lower abdomen. “The transformation cog is located here. Knockout hypothesizes that it requires replacement but I believe certain connectors merely need to be reseated. Please examine closely.”

When Ratchet taught you about T-cogs, you were surprised to learn that not every Cybertronian possessed such an “organ”. Once they might have been used as disguises, Ratchet had also explained, but now the Autobots use them almost exclusively for transportation or as weapons. You don’t know what Shockwave’s alternate mode is (and don’t know if it’s impolite to ask) but you assume the massive cannon that replaces his left arm is part of the transformation.

You push away cables and wires as thick as your forearm, and rest your hands on his transformation cog. You feel Shockwave sigh deeply at the delicate touch. The cog is the same deep violet color as his armor and it consists of two outer rings that  _ tick-tick-tick  _ like a clock hand. Every so often, the pattern skips a beat, and then repeats.

“Why do you think it’s jut a matter of poor connection?” you ask, trying to calm the mech as you jam a hand deeper in his anatomy.

“It is a reasonable matter of presentiment,” says Shockwave. “I have known this frame for the entirety of my life. I would know if the transformation cog had expired beyond its use.”

“So it’s more of a feeling.”

Shockwave huffs. “It is not intuition to know that something mechanical is amiss with one’s body. It is rational thinking.”

Your fingers brush against the T-cog’s edges. As you slowly and carefully remove and adjust the placement of the first attachment, you can  _ feel _ Shockwave’s body tense up. “Does it hurt?” you ask him.

“No.” Short and crisp.

You work on the dozen connectors and try to ignore his erratic shivers and uneven breathing. Some attachments were not completely attached, like a USB not properly fitted in the port. “I think you were right,” you say as you finish plugging the last one. “How does it feel?”

“It feels like there is an organic creature crawling around my insides,” Shockwave says dryly. “Please withdraw from my interior.”

You scramble out of the cavity, hooking a leg around his shoulder to make a quick escape. But in haste, you miss your footing--

Shockwave catches you in his palm before you fall. His digits curl protectively around you, careful not to crush you. He has no heartbeat, but yours rails against your ribcage. He says nothing when he sets you on the ground by his helm. He replaces his armor and sits up, optics dimming briefly as he collects himself. The Decepticon then regards you and tells you, “I predicate that the transformation cog is returned to functionality. I will have to test the hypothesis in another location.”

“Does that mean you’ll head back to the  _ Nemesis _ ?” you ask.

Then a familiar red-and-silver mech pushes himself up from behind the couch. “Oh good, does that mean we’re leaving?” asks Knockout as you shriek in surprise.

“Knockout, what the fuck? How long have you been there?” you demand.  _ And why are you short? _ seemed like another inappropriate question, but Knockout looked significantly smaller than you remember. If he had been his full height, there was no way he could have been hidden from view.

“I was here to supervise Shockwave’s operation,” Knockout replies in an indifferent tone. “I had to make sure that a human didn’t extinguish our Chief Science Officer whether accidentally or on purpose. Though I am reluctant to admit that your… minuscule size has proved useful.”

“Knockout has performed ‘mass displacement’,” Shockwave says, now a titan to both you and his associate. “It is not uncommon for Cybertronians to reduce or enlarge in size when transforming into an alternate mode. However, they may also reduce body mass for brief periods of time at the expense of energy.”

Knockout’s half-lidded eyes and lazy demeanor seem to confirm the latter. He’s more than half his original size but remains at least ten feet tall. Behind him, the television channel plays a random reality tv show. Shockwave covetously observes the height difference between you and Knockout and kneels down to gaze at you.

“We will take our leave presently,” Shockwave notes.

“I’ll radio Soundwave,” says Knockout, yawning.

A moment later, a ground bridge opens at the far end of the garage, pulsing and rippling.

Knockout balks. “I didn’t call him  _ that _ quickly. That’s not Soundwave.”

Shockwave immediately places himself between you and the portal, canon angled to fire at the first mention of violence. Knockout likewise steps next to Shockwave; his narrow waist rests level with the top of your head.

A sleek mech emerges from the portal, limber and narrow similar to Arcee’s frame. But the silver-painted mech is much taller, and flat aerial wings extends from his back. You press yourself against Shockwave’s leg and peek at the unknown Cybertronian. His red eyes sweep over the surroundings and the Decepticons, his pointed face scrunching in disdain and perplexity.

“Ah, Starscream,” Knockout drawls, hiding his anxious, twitching hands behind his back, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Shockwave, Knockout,” says the ‘con in a sickly sweet yet grating voice, “Would you care to explain why you are in a human dwelling?” 


	7. Chapter 7

“Starscream,” Shockwave says. “Why are you here?”

The silver Decepticon doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studies the high ceiling and walls with blatant suspicion. Starscream extends a slender hand; you watch the shadow on the wall splinters into five needle-like digits. His sleek frame highlights an oddly terrifying sense of elegance and lethality.

“I noted your absence aboard the _Nemesis_ and glanced through the bridge’s recent portal logs,” Starscream announces, lightly scraping his fingers against his chin. The shiver of metal-on-metal makes your toes curl in unease. “Now, explain yourselves.”

“Shockwave was injured nearby,” Knockout interjects. “It’s possible that his damaged parts could be salvaged.”

Starscream squints at the medic. “And does that account for your… stature?”

Knockout glances at himself. “Ah. I almost forgot.” You feel a sudden blast of heat from him as his frame shifts and expands. The mech whistles a size of relief as he towers once more, now equal height to Starscream. The two size each other up with disgruntled respect and apprehension. You briefly wonder what kind of hostile dynamic keeps the Decepticon forces moving, if at all.

“If this is near where Shockwave was overpowered by the Autobots,” Starscream says cuttingly, “then wouldn’t this be the home of their organic counterparts?”

Knockout shrugs. “Who knows? Their species is rather invasive, but I don’t see any connection to the Autobots.”

You’re not sure _why_ Knockout seems to be protecting you from his fellow mech but you’ll be grateful if you escape this situation alive. Though you’d never met Megatron’s second-in-command before, the name _Starscream_ was loathed among the Autobots for his villainy, treachery, and spinelessness. And even though the seeker boasts agility, you might be able to slip through the workshop door if he was distracted long enough…

Shockwave remains as rigid as you press yourself closer to his leg and hold your breath, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure that everyone will hear.

The seeker prowls closer to your shelves. You can see how his claws trail curiously over the furniture as if he is wary to touch or leave a mark. You quickly dart behind Shockwave’s other leg. The short leap might have felt like a mile in molasses. Yet Starscream doesn’t notice. He’s enraptured by the tools and broken parts on your table.

Among the mess, you spy the datapad Wheeljack had lent you earlier.

And so does Starscream.

He snatches the tablet and his voice becomes shrill, on the verge of hysteria-- “Cybertronian tech in human possession? Writings about the Institute, the Senate--?”

“The Institute?” Knockout repeats, genuinely confused. “Not an Autobot-friendly matter.” He flicks his gaze briefly over to your hiding place but forces himself to refocus. “Perhaps we should return to the _Nemesis._ I’ll radio Soundwave for a ground bridge.” Again, you’re somehow indebted to this sardonic, shark-like Decepticon who enjoys dissecting and slicing his enemies on a cold slab.

“You have nothing to say, Shockwave?” Starscream asks snidely, slipping the datapad into his subspace. Well, there goes your late night reading material. “What does your _logic_ suggest?”

“Evidence proves a human-Cybertronian relationship without clear alignment to either Decepticon nor Autobot forces.” Calm, monotous. So unlike his silver acquaintance.

The seeker bristles. “Then it must be the work of MECH.”

“Negative. The environment lacks a militaristic presence.” Shockwave’s optic blaze as Starscream stalks over to the garage doors. Digging his claws into the steel, he tears the panels off the frame as easy as ripping paper. He discards them and introduces the late afternoon light and the arid desert. Before the destroyed doors finish rattling on the floors, you’ve dashed across the rest of the room.

Your hand wraps around the handle just as Starscream turns to glance over his shoulder. He does a double-take. You look up and meet his shocked, scarlet red gaze, and then you’re sprinting around the side of the building, thinking you can hide under the pickup truck long enough for Shockwave and Knockout to intervene--

“Come here, you little--” Starscream ducks through the garage and scoops you up, thirty feet into the fucking air, his needlepoint claws closing around you like a vice. Arms pinned to your sides, you kick and flail under his curious scrutiny. He taunts, “Did you really think you could outrun someone like me?” Struggling past the vertigo and the blurring landscape, you see the other two Decepticons emerge from the garage doors. There’s not enough air in your lungs to wheeze for help.

Shockwave raises his canon and aims it. “Release them.”

“Oh, this little thing?” Starscream preens, waving you in front of him like some figurine toy and gloats when Shockwave hesitates. “Tell me, do you think they could survive a fall from this height? Humans are so, so _fragile_. And it seems…”

The seeker examines you closely, and with fear stabbing your heart, a devious smile crawls across his narrow face.

“It seems this human _means_ something to you.”

Shockwave lunges, arm outstretched. But the world collapses around you into silver and red shifting, living metal and you’re thrown into the seat of a raptor jet. The seeker Starscream transforms in a blink of an eye, then races towards the horizon.

* * *

The altimeter on the console ticks _20,000 feet, 30,000 feet, 40,000 ft_… At what point do you need oxygen? When will your brain implode from the atmosphere pressure? You cling to the seat as the jet takes a sharp turn and descends towards a rust-colored canyon. It looks like you’re still in the desert, but there are unfamiliar snow-capped peaks in the distance. You have no idea how far you are from home. You think you could mess with his interior, maybe pry off the console plate, but the Decepticon just might eject you into freefall if he felt like it.

Starscream glides towards a jagged ridge, and then the living metal shifts again, peeling away until you hit the hard ground. The sparse cliff is barley wide enough to accommodate the seeker. A few feet in either direction and you would tip over the edge. Starscream blocks your way to safer terrain as he angrily dusts off his shoulders. “Disgusting,” he mutters. Okay, good, so the egoistic maniac in the mood to talk. Struggling to catch your breath, you push yourself up and shakily rise to your feet.

“Lord Starscream, I presume,” is the first stupid thing that pops out of your mouth.

His shifting wings whisper a sinister resemblance to a rattlesnake’s warning. “So you’ve heard of me, no doubt from your Autobot friends.” Starscream then makes a doubtful face. “Except that Shockwave has taken a liking to you for some forsaken reason.”

“It’s true, I’ve met with mechs on both sides,” you admit. “I saved Shockwave.”

Starscream scoffs. “You say that as if it means something to me.” His right arm suddenly transforms a blaster cannon. You instinctively back up, then the sheer drop reminds you that there’s no escape. Starscream’s grin grows as he watches you despair and continues, “Shockwave and I may serve Lord Megatron together, but he is an obstacle to my path to glory and power. Hurting _you_ means hurting _him_.”

“Think about it, Starscream,” you say, watching the blaster slowly charge up. _Better choose your last words carefully._ “What do you think will happen when Shockwave finds out?”

“He will be distracted by your demise long enough for me to secure Lord Megatron’s favor and then I, St--”

“Do you _really_ want Shockwave to be mad at you?”

Starscream’s grin wavers. “What?”

“Shockwave. Mad. At you.” You slowly sit down-- partly to show off how non-threatening you are, partly because you’re still winded from the impromptu jet ride. Oh, and the threat of imminent disintegration. You explain gently, “Like I said, I saved Shockwave. He was blind, damaged, and without a way to communicate the ship.”

“It would have better if you left him to rust,” Starscream snaps.

“Yeah, well, now we’re friends. He believes that he owes me a debt and--” You look away, flustered-- “He said he’d protect me.”

The blaster cannon disappears and Starscream kneels, thrusting his face in yours to demand your attention. His hot ex-vent reeks of kerosene and ozone. His optics flick side-to-side warily. “Knockout is aware of this?” he asks suspiciously.

“Soundwave, too” you admit.

His eyes widen.

“And you’re right, I _am_ friends with the Autobots, so they might be upset if I disappear under suspicious circumstances.”

Starscream covers his face and groans. He’s too aware of the consequences awaiting short-term gratification. He seems at a loss for words as he grapples with this hostage dilemma. The last thing he needs is to be on everyone’s shit list. “You humans and your _bonding_ habits,” he mutters, glaring angrily in your direction. “It makes me want to purge. I expected such blatant weaknesses from the Autobots, but _Shockwave_? That vat of emotionless logic?”

“It’s about a debt.” You wrap your arms around yourself. Shivering not from the Decepticon’s fading threats, but the cool evening. There is a moment of stillness as Starscream finds himself with no advantage, no favors, and a very angry cyclops. You peer up at the melancholic seeker. “Starscream?”

“What.”

“I’d like to go home. We can let the others know that I’m okay.”

Starscream sighs heavily, then grabs you again. He shoves you into the cockpit seat in mid-transformation, racing upwards to the skies rather than back to civilization. His saccharine sweet voice comes through the console speakers, quiet yet cold. “You should be more aware of your mortality. Crossing lines, defying allies… I wager that your Autobot friends don’t approve of your impartiality.”

You cant your gaze out the windows. “They don’t know.”

The seeker snickers. “Perhaps there’s a bit of Decepticon in you, after all.”

Dense storm clouds shroud and drown the far off desert below. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the _Nemesis_. I’ll hand you over to Shockwave personally as a sign of good faith.” A few minutes tick past and eventually a massive, jagged shape emerges from the dark sky. The _Nemesis_ was the Decepticon warship, a fortress for hundreds of warriors. Its location was constantly sought-after by the Autobots. “Starscream to Soundwave. Would you kindly ask Shockwave to meet me on the forward deck? I, er, _borrowed_ something of his.”

Starscream zips past the length of the warship and you gape, slack-jawed, at its immense size. The raptor jet then circles once around the top deck, then transforms and he catches you before you fall face-first. The air is thin and hard to breathe, and you think that if you take one more plane ride, you’ll hurl your lunch.

“Chin up, human. Try and look healthy.”

Doors to the _Nemesis_ interior slide open and Shockwave comes out, his pace heavy and quickened. His optic blazes in the darkness and leaves a crimson light trail in its wake. He charges the cannon and raises it before he’s made it halfway across the empty deck.

“Put that away, you imbecile,” Starscream snaps, then nudges you forward with his hand. “See? Safe and sound. Simple misunderstanding.”

Shockwave’s voice is dangerously low. “’Misunderstanding’?”

Starscream recoils. “Er, y-yes. I’ve learned that your little human is off-limits. More importantly, it won’t happen again as long as you’re ‘indebted’ to them.” Something about his words forces you to glance over your shoulder. His narrowed gaze barely conceals malice and a promise that once all debts are paid, your life is forfeit.

The cyclops sets down his palm and allows you to climb on. He lowers the blaster cannon, but not before vowing, “If you threaten the human again, I would rather destroy your spark than listen to your flawed excuses.” Then with a startling contrast, Shockwave regards you with a gentle gaze. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“I will ask Soundwave to ground bridge us back to your accommodations.”

The ground bridge swirls into existence and Shockwave begins lumbering towards it. Before the two of you cross over, Starscream, slinking back to his duties on the _Nemesis_, calls out. Strangely, he doesn’t sound condescending or scornful. Just bewildered. “All this for this human, one of billions on this planet?” Starscream asks, and the titan pauses mid-stride. “Shockwave, what are you _thinking_?”

The question hangs in the nighttime, open-ended and limitless to a myriad of answers. But Shockwave merely glances at you, cradled in his palm, and then continues walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come and rave with me at [my tumblr](https://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

TYPE: Transcript

PARTIES: Two [2]. Starscream, Military Commander [u.1] Knockout, Chief Medical Officer [u.2]

//AUDIO STORED//

//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[u.1: 00.01] Knockout. A word, if you will.

[u.2: 00.04] Yes?

[u.1: 00.06] Ahem.

[u.2: 00.15] I’ll be a pile of rust by the time you start speaking, Lord Starscream. But judging from your being alive and well, I wager that Shockwave didn’t care to disintegrate you on the spot. I’m surprised you returned the little human.

[u.1: 00.28] I was… persuaded. With violent threats. He said he’d destroy my spark.

[u.2: 00.33] Right.

[u.1: 00.35] How long have you known about the human?

[u.2: 00.40] Ever since Shockwave returned from his battle with the Autobots. They restored his communications and made contact with Soundwave. Quite the sorry sight, that shattered optic. Anyways, Shockwave has kept persistent contact and I--

[u.1: 00.55] --decided to tag along while shrinking to less than half your height? Really, Knockout, mass displacement must be a strain on the joints.

[u.2: 00.65] Doctors do what they must for their patients. I didn’t have the proper physique to treat Shockwave. Hence, the human.

[u.2: 00.76] What’s the matter?

[u.1: 00.85] I saw the datapads at the fleshling’s dwelling. Writings about the Institute and shadowplay.

[u.2: 00.91] Oh?

[u.1: 01.10] I’m not stupid, Knockout. Before I joined the Decepticons, I was a Senator in Vos. I witnessed the cloak and dagger games of shadowplay firsthand. And I’m the one who sought him out for the Decepticon cause.

[u.2: 01.21] I know.

[u.1: 01.24] After all this time, he still doesn’t know?

[u.2: 01.28] It could change him.

[u.1: 01.30] He’s already acting different. Emotional. Not… logically.

[u.2: 01.39] I know. All I have are theories and research papers with more redactions than I thought possible. But if Shockwave becomes overwhelmed of what shadowplay has taken away from him, after centuries of suppressed emotions, what do you think will happen? Especially now that he’s formed a strong attachment with a creature that could die with minimal effort?

[u.1. 01. 50] I could care less about Shockwave’s well-being.

[u.2. 01.56] You should start paying attention. Did you forget how he threatened to snuff out your spark? You think Shockwave’s unstable now?

[u.2. 02.00] Just you wait.

//END TRANSCRIPT//


	9. Chapter 9

A tidal wave of relief washes over you when you pass through the portal. Shockwave kneels and slides you to your feet, then sits back on his haunches. Patient. Waiting. His fins flick to the sides, listening, as you stare at the pile of scrap that used to be your garage door. You half-heartedly pick up one of the smaller pieces and set it on the workshop table. Deep scores from Starscream’s talons glare angrily.

“Inquiry: Will you be all right?” asks Shockwave, low and soft-spoken.

“I, uh--” You step back and rub your neck-- “I think I have a tarp in the truck. It won’t help with the cold or the heat or the possibility of being robbed, but it’s better than nothing.”

Shockwave politely holds the corner of the tarps against the wall as you wrestle with a hand stapler that was prone to jamming. Bit by bit, you draw the curtain on the late afternoon shadows. Starscream had done a vicious number on the garage doors. It wouldn’t be sensible to weld together the pieces. You’d have to order a custom installation.

“I won’t be able to stay here until the doors are fixed,” you say. “It should take a couple of weeks.”

“Where shall you reside?”

You give him a cautious side-eye. “With Starscream on the loose, I might be safer with the Autobots.” You begin to collect some belongings and stuff them in a bag: clothes, toiletries, anything necessary for the time being. Smaller valuables were locked in a hidden safe, though the television and workshop tools were more difficult to protect.

“Starscream understands the consequences of interfering with our affairs.” His choice of words nearly made you do a spit-take but you manage to stifle any outbursts. The titan rests a massive hand against the charred and blackened floor. “I promised that he would not hurt you.”

“I believe you. I don’t think he’ll come after me, but…”

“You still fear.” 

“What if he tells Megatron? And what if Megatron decides that I’m prime hostage material, or just another human in his way?” You waver in front of Shockwave. Your bag falls limp in your grip and threatens to spill across the floor. Passport, keys, cash, a ticket to the Himalayans-- well, maybe not the last one, but the sentiment remains. “Sooner or later, everyone will know. All of them.”

The Decepticon leans forward, his crimson eye dilated and fixated on you. “Perhaps you misunderstand the terms of our arrangement.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “So tell me again.”

“You are a neutral party,” Shockwave says calmly. “I am willing to defend this.”

“But Megatron--”

“He will not bring harm. I will not allow it. Knowledge about your existence may become commonplace. It does not change anything.” He can see the lingering doubt in your body language. Shockwave slowly reaches out and braces a gentle thumb against your head. An awkward, reassuring gesture. “Your fear is logical. Service to Lord Megatron gives me allowance to pursue ambitions otherwise limited by resources. But my loyalties are to self-interest.”

You half-chuckle. “Do I interest you?”

Shockwave does not answer.

When you dial the Autobot base, a familiar, scratchy voice answers the call. “Hey, doc,” you say, twisting your fingers around the landline cord. “My shop got trashed. No, it’s fine. I’m okay. Can I ask a favor? I need a place for a few days. Yeah. Thanks. See you in a klick.” When you hang up, Shockwave’s portal back to the _Nemesis_ waits in the corner, crackling with ozone and lightning.

Shockwave gingerly slides over a communicator from your shelf. It’s the one programmed to his personal frequency, courtesy of Soundwave. “Geographical tracking on this wavelength have been disabled both ways,” he reminds. “We will know neither location of our respective bases.”

You turn over the radio in your hands. You’d never had a reason to contact Shockwave. You’re not sure if you ever will have an unselfish reason.

With nothing else to say, not even a goodbye, Shockwave heads through the portal. As it fades away, your own entrance materializes outside, a silhouette hanging amidst the swirling space-bridge. Ratchet, none the wiser to recent company, lets out a low whistle at the sight of the absent garage doors. He hooks his thumbs in his belt and leans down to take a closer inspection. “You weren’t kidding. What happened?”

“Trouble with the law. I got the police looking for my stash of Cybertronian weed.”

Ratchet snorts. He keeps pace with your truck back to the Autobot base, murmuring about the decrepit state of its finish under his breath. You pretend not to hear the old medic’s ramblings and give the hood an affectionate pat after parking by the entrance. The former military base’s hollow, cavernous size never fails to amaze you. You’ve yet to explore the rest of the halls although the kids have offered a tour multiple times.

In addition to the Team Prime kids’ gatecrashing, they had a common area near the main consoles. It included a squishy couch, a game system, and a mini-fridge possibly filched from Jack’s garage. You trudge up the stairs to the human space and toss your bag on the floor next to a few controllers. Raf and Bumblebee must have had another racing tournament.

“The others are on patrol until midnight,” says Ratchet, “so it’ll be calm for a while. And if you’re hungry, Miko probably left behind some of the junk food she’s always eating.”

“You’re the best, Ratchet,” you say, collapsing on the couch. “What’s the news with Wheeljack?”

“He’s very near that unknown frequency. It’s fainter with each passing day so he’s been traveling nonstop. Could be a downed Autobot.”

“Or a ‘con,” you say, echoing your previous conversation with the Wrecker.

Ratchet grunts. He picks up a flask of Energon and his datapad, then leans against the railing casually. He’s much more relaxed in your presence-- maybe it’s because he doesn’t feel the pressure of his role as a medic. You don’t want to take that sense of ease away from him by bombarding him with questions about shadowplay and the Institute, so you take out your phone and start looking for a contractor for the garage.

The red-and-white mech glances over after the phone call (“Yeah, the damage is pretty significant… uh, I guess it was bad weather?”), and asks, “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?” You frown. Ratchet waves a hand around. “The revolution around the solar system? The kids were adamant that this was an important occasion.”

Was it New Year’s Eve already?

“The kids are at home with their family,” Ratchet says, jabbing a finger at the datapad. “So where’s yours?”

“Halfway across the world,” you say, kicking up your legs on the couch. “So they’ve probably celebrated the new year already. Do Cybertronians have a similar ideas?”

“We have stellar cycles,” Ratchet affirms, “but when you live so long, celebrations of time become repetitive.” He clears his throat clumsily. “I have no human liquor on the premises but if you’d like-- I assume you’re of age--”

“I’m okay. Not really in a party mood.”

Ratchet quietly studies you. “What really happened at your workshop?”

“Personal stuff, doc.”

He huffs, folds his arms across his chest, and then famously scowls. “Does this personal stuff, oh, I don’t know, involve fixing stray mechs?”

You wince inwardly. “Maybe.”

“Hmph.” The medic’s frown only deepens, and you wonder if you’ve ever seen Ratchet lose his temper. He’s scolded the rowdy bots a few times and complained whenever his equipment ended up shattered on the floor. Ratchet polishes off the rest of his drink, then says quietly, “But you’re alive.”

“What?”

His eye twitches. “If you are alive, it’s not because you were lucky. It’s because you are valuable.” Ratchet holds up a hand to halt your immediate protests. “No, no, I don’t think you would betray our locations or weaknesses but you are playing a very dangerous game. Decepticons are not like sad, lost puppies in the rain--”

“‘Sad lost puppies’?” you echo confusedly.

“It was some blasted human movie about-- Never mind that. Have you forgotten all of their schemes to eradicate your home world?” Ratchet shakes his head. “You know that I don’t approve.”

You feel like a teenager lectured on the dangers of online messaging or sex before marriage. Ratchet might be a grumpy old mech but you respect him and his faith in you. Shockwave’s communicator rests heavy in your backpack, and you feel your gaze being drawn to it again and again. You summon the courage to look at him, and boldly say, “You know why I fix them.”

Ratchet further sinks into his grouchy stance with wide shoulders hunched and arms firmly folded in discontent. You can hear the soft growl of his engines emanating from deep within his chest.

You’ve been a nontraditional medic for a brief time, but you already wield the power to _save_. In the cold silence of a finished battle, the wounded cry louder than the dead. It’s too difficult to ignore. Slowly, slowly, his temper thaws and he drops his gaze. At heart (and spark) he regrets to understand your reasons.

“Do you… trust me?” you ask nervously.

Ratchet, scowling at his empty flask, looks up with a measure of surprise. “Trust you? Of course. I would allow very few to operate on my spark casing, and your competence is unchanged.” A shadow of doubt tints his raspy voice. “I often forgot, though, that you don’t have allegiances. At the end of the day, you’re alive… and I suppose that’s all that matters.”

“It’s not easy,” you say, slowly sitting down as the mood eventually shifts and relaxes. “On one hand, you and Wheeljack and the others are my friends. But I feel also attached to my, um, patients. Regardless of their brand.”

“It’s not uncommon. That’s the reason we must maintain professionality. You can’t play favorites when you have obligations to your other patients. And I should clarify,” Ratchet says suddenly, drumming his fingers against the railing, “I don’t want to know about your _patients_, but does it explain your interest in shadowplay?”

You throw yourself back on the couch and groan. “I just wish I knew more,” you mumble. “No datapad’s been able to give me a clear answer.”

Ratchet reluctantly agrees. “Ever since you brought up the subject, I have often been thinking about the Institute. It’s like a plague that keeps coming back.”

“There was a damaged module that had something to do with shadowplay, or it was responsible for it. All I know is that it was important enough to earn a visit from Doctor Sawbones,” you say, trying to re-imagine the insignificant-looking piece of metal. It didn’t take long for Ratchet to understand who you were referencing.

Ratchet is deep in thought, as if he’s wrestling with his own realizations or conflict. Rubbing his face, he slowly admits, “Shadowplay suppresses the emotional centers in a mech’s brain module… and there is a mech known for his… logic.” You glance over and Ratchet just shakes his head again.

The two of you quietly sit and suffer in the uncomfortable tension. At least it seems as if you understand each other.

The communications console bursts to life with static and noise. “--_zzt_\-- Ratchet, you there? It’s--- _zzt_\-- requesting a ground brid-- _zzt_\--"

You know that gravelly voice anywhere. Ratchet likewise dives at the console and accepts the transmission. “Wheeljack, repeat. You’re breaking up.”

Through the blitzing noise, Wheeljack sounds unusually on the edge. He doesn’t sound labored or injured, just upset. “Need a-- _zzt_\-- at this location as soon as possible. Sending coordin--- _zzt_\-- to you now.”

Ratchet punches the received numbers into the system and then lunges for the ground-bridge lever. The swirling portal manifests in seconds. You brace yourself against the railing, wide-eyed, as you wait for the silhouettes at the end of the tunnel. You have no idea what to expect. Ratchet keeps one hand on the lever, his own face contorted in a stern look of concern.

The Wrecker doesn’t have his katana drawn nor his faceplate drawn over his mouth. You can see every crease in his aged features, but your attention is suddenly drawn to the motionless mech draped over Wheeljack’s shoulder. He dumps the bot on Ratchet’s lab table and offers a quick nod at you. “Good to see you here. Might need your help.”

“What happened?” Ratchet demands as he closes the bridge. He takes one look at the unresponsive mech and then draws back in shock. You race over to them and clamber up for a better view. The bot is not much larger than the lean Wheeljack, however had a narrower torso and wide wing blades. You noted that he looked peaceful despite his battered and bruised state, and it would be some time before he was ever so calm again. His dark grey markings were simple and clean but the most prominent feature was the cardinal red chevron on his helm.

“He was in landfall,” Wheeljack says, referencing to the phenomenon of Cybertrons falling from orbit. Landing gracefully and in one piece was not guaranteed. The bot steps back as Ratchet scans his patient for injuries. “Used an outdated frequency so it was less likely for Decepticons to discover him. He’s been in some bad way for a while.”

“I hadn’t realized that he knew Autobots were on Earth,” Ratchet says.

“He probably didn’t,” replies Wheeljack. “You think he would’ve wanted to come here if he knew about Prime and the others?”

“Maybe he had no other choice.”

Wheeljack’s mouth twists. He turns on his heel, throws up a hand, calls over his shoulder, “When the prick wakes up, you make sure he knows I’m the one who dragged his sorry ass back here.”

You and Ratchet look at each other; his expression is more exasperated than surprised. The medic then activates the bot’s default-locks and quickly examines his internal components. “Take a look at his injuries,” Ratchet says as he hands you a delicate welding tool, “and in the meantime I’ll tell you about Prowl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to support the time I spend writing these fics, consider [taking a look](https://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/kofi)?   
I have more information so feel free to browse :0
> 
> Anyways! Thank you!


	10. Chapter 10

When the Autobots retire to their individual rooms, you are left alone in the main hub with the patient known as Prowl. His landfall did a number on his basic power core and functions, but you’ve learned that as long as one’s spark remained intact, Cybertronians could survive basically anything. You had access to more sophisticated tools at Ratchet’s lab and helped to fuse internal ruptures. Ratchet pestered you to wear protective gear and often criticized your handiwork, but he was always respectful. You swear you even saw a proud look on that grumpy mech. Then he nearly blew a gasket when you told him about injecting energon into The-Bot-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named’s spark chamber.

You take a blanket from your car and trudge over to the couch, and ignore how you stink of copper and motor oil. Under the dim emergency lights of the base, you fumble around your backpack and find Shockwave’s communicator. It is reassuring to the touch, but there is no reason to call him. Instead you find your personal datapad and push away thoughts about the cyclops.

Wheeljack gave you access to Autopedia shortly after you met. _Quick summary on who or what you’re dealing with,_ he’d said, casually punching in access codes to thousands of Cybertronian profiles. You were told that Prowl fought for the cause, but with each paragraph on his Autopedia page, you feel like you better understood why Wheeljack stormed off.

Cybertron officer who wasn’t hesitant to get his hands dirty. Autobot soldier who hated the war. Followed the rules, but only if he wrote them. Headed Diplomatic Corps. His psychological profile read that he was incredibly intelligent and perceptive and prone to conflict. He butted heads with Optimus Prime, Alpha Trion, and pretty much anyone who was an authority figure. He was on an active covert mission as Cybertron was devastated by war and ever since, no one could verify his whereabouts.

Sleep manages to evade you for the better part of an hour and you finally give up. You grab the blanket and communicator, and then slip into the elevator which takes you topside. The desert night sky greets you with a clarity you quite can’t see among skyscrapers. You huddle near the cliff edge, kicking a few pebbles down into the grand abyss. Starscream’s threats are a dull echo in the back of your mind.

You flick on the communicator. “Is anyone there?” you ask, nervously thumbing the blanket fringe.

Silence.

“Is anyone there?”

Then there’s a sharp crackle through the receiver, like a bolt of lightning too close for comfort, and a low droning voice: “It is quite late into the cycle.”

You can’t help but smile sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

Miles away and suspended among the clouds, Shockwave answers, “No. I have not yet retired. There is much work to be done. But it would be appropriate to take a short interlude. Did you have an inquiry?”

“No. I don’t think so, anyways.” You hug the blanket closer to your body as the temperature drops. Desert bats flit past the canyon cliffs, chittering to one another, their wings quietly audible in the silence. “How about you?”

“Yes. Is this how your species utilize their time? Roundabout inquiries which ultimately result in pointless conversation?” Shockwave asks, swiping leisurely through his many datapads.

“Okay, okay. No small talk.” You lift up your gaze. “I was looking at the stars. Did Cybertronians make up constellations, too? Can you see the sky?”

Shockwave pulls the feed from the surveillance program, but it fails to capture the essence of the night sky. With little hesitation, he leaves the laboratory and makes his way on the top platform. The few drones performing maintenance tasks avoid eye contact with the cyclops and quicken their pace. He finds a secluded space nearer to the bow, then finally replies, “Yes, many shaped the stars to fit a cultural and literary narrative. They saw a cluster of warriors or harbingers of death when it was truly natural occurrences.”

“People have been looking up at the stars for centuries. Cultures and nations were separated by time and location, and we were still compelled to name them after our gods and mythologies.”

Shockwave focuses his optics on a random star, no brighter nor dimmer than its kin. Magnification shows nothing of interest. He knows astronomy as well as any other field of science accessible to the intelligent Cybertronian. “It is your species’ tendency to anthropomorphize, or attribute human traits, to non-human entities.”

“Do you think it’s a weakness?”

“Often times. You do not realize the power of a star. It is writhing, radiating, and nuclear. Its luminosity reaches across light-years. Forcing stars into asterisms and groups debases individuality.”

“That makes sense,” you admit, tracing the shape of well-known constellations. The Big Dipper, its sibling, Orion’s Belt-- most others were obscure and unintentionally, trivial in comparison. “But now I wonder,” you continue, “why Cybertronians sometimes remind me of humans.”

“Explain.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “Behavior, mentality, and attitude. Cybertronians react the same way to certain stimuli. You experience fear and happiness and loss and…” You slowly trail off and you wonder if Shockwave still has the capacity for emotions. “Do you…”

Shockwave watches cloud wisps gather in the lower atmosphere. His sensors inform him of water droplets beading against his plate armor, as temperature drops and condensation thickens. More receptors warn him about shifts in chemical changes. Nitrogen. Oxygen. Ozone. Lightning is quick to strike. It does not linger. It rarely strikes twice.

“No.”

“No… emotions?”

“Correct. Being freed from emotion allows me to pursue logic. I have no fear. I am not limited by moral quandaries.”

He curls his fingers into his palm. He senses the flexing cables and pressurized pistons in every subtle action. Every movement is intentional. Every thought is careful. There is not a byte of doubt in his system. He relaxes his hand, and then closes it again. He did not expect a different outcome.

“But something is different now,” the Decepticon says. “I do not know the reason why.”

Lightning streaks across the sky with a thunderous crash. You hear the storm over the radio. Shockwave automatically withdraws from the bow, among the drones who hasten to seek cover indoors. His species might be resistant to the natural phenomenon, but an overwhelming jolt of electric discharge can seriously disorient the sensors.

Before he withdraws completely from topside, he tells you, “On a satellite connection like ours, I do not anticipate adequate communications with the weather interference. I recommend retiring for the remaining cycle.”

“Good idea. I’m getting pretty cold, anyways.” You worry your lip anxiously. “I’ll-- I’ll call again tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“You may.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Shockwave.”

You switch off the radio. Although the chill gnaws at your exposed skin, you replay the conversation. Shockwave claims that he doesn’t own emotions-- so what drove him to threaten Starscream for his mischief? Was it truly a logic-based reason to protect you from his fellow officers, and even his commander? And the module for the shadowplay-- _someone_ put it there.

The silver moon hangs lazily as your sole witness. No storm clouds in sight. You crawl back inside, past the unconscious patient, up and back on the couch.

You’re still holding onto the radio when you fall asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

The Autobot medic picks up a welding torch and squints at his patient’s smashed and broken forearm. Ratchet claims he has the steadiest hands in the medical business, but it’s a different story when it concerns his eyesight. He works slowly to repair the nerve cables while you pop bubblegum and watch glumly from a distance.

Arcee and Bumblebee arrive from their morning patrol and transform in the center hub. The mechs wave at you and the latter makes a trilling, inquisitive noise to Ratchet. You don’t totally understand the scout, but you get the sense that he’s talking about you.

“Because, Bumblee,” Ratchet answers with a grumble, “I believe my assistant--”

“_Assistant_?” you repeat incredulously.

“--needs to reconsider certain lectures on proper medical care. Until then, I refuse to allow them near any tools.”

You throw your hands up in the air. “It was one time, Ratchet! And it was an emergency, and it worked!”

The two of you bicker like an old married couple as Arcee and Bumblebee slowly back away and out of sight. “Even if it worked,” Ratchet says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you shouldn’t have to take risks. A spark is what keeps us going-- tampering with the chamber or piercing its walls could have serious consequences on the mech’s health.”

“If I promise not to do it again unless it was literally life of death,” you say exasperatedly, “would you calm down?”

The Autobot medic bristles. You think he’s ready to go on another tirade when he jabs a stout finger at your direction and scowls with as much disapproval as he can muster. Sparks fly in every direction from his unattended torch. “Life or death,” Ratchet says sternly.

You have no plans to stay inside the base all day. Jasper, a sleepy desert suburb, isn’t far away and has a decent hardware store. You hop in the truck and rattle leisurely along the highway, windows down in the new year’s chilly days. The car radio’s on the fritz and blasts a stanza of 70s music every other minute. You’d bring out the portable radio if a certain mech hadn’t stolen it.

_Knockout knows_.

You drum your fingers against the steering wheel during an obstinately long red light. Of course Knockout knows about shadowplay. He’s the one who told you about it. _Do you even know anything about shadowplay? _It’s hard to talk shop with Ratchet when he’s put a gag order on anything Decepticon related. If you want answers, it seems you’ll have to track down the flashy ‘con--

\--which means, during the late evening, you find yourself along a stretch of unfinished highway construction, slouched in the driver’s seat, and watching the half-dozen, distant headlights draw closer. You don’t recognize most of the model cars that pull up, only that they’re built for speed and not much else. Hardly anyone gives you a second glance as they drive past to the makeshift starting line. Groupies gather around at the sidelines.

The Ashton Martin revvs its engines as you approach, and the driver’s door pops open with a flourish. You slide in the seat without hesitation. “Hey doll,” says Knockout, and the lights on the dash blink with each drawling word. “How in the name of Primus did you find me here?”

“A little bird told me that you liked to race. So is this what big, bad Decepticons do in their free time?” you tease lightly.

He laughs. “What’s the point if you don’t have a little fun once in a while?” Knockout asks.

Someone yells above the rumbling motors, and a crowd answers enthusiastically. Some of the cars are polished like smooth stones in river and some are flecked with mud and grime. They slowly roll towards what looks like a starting line-- a line drawn in chalk by a figure blanketed in the bright of white headlights.

“You might want to strap yourself in,” Knockout says, closing the door abruptly.

“What? No! I’m not going to race.”

“You’re not racing. _I’m_ racing.”

“Yeah, well,” you say and grab the handle, “I’m not going to break my neck in illegal street racing--”

Knockout interrupts, “You’re here about Shockwave, aren’t you?” A person with a dirtied, ripped handkerchiefs walks into view from the sidelines. The Decepticon continues, “I know you are. And I’m not lingering any longer than necessary around these greasy humans. You want your answers?” He revvs again.

You huff, then grab the seatbelt while ignoring his low, drawn-out chuckle.

Something moves in the corner of your eye-- the handkerchief released, drifting as slow as molasses to the ground-- and then your head audibly smacks against the seat. All you see are the red and white taillights smeared against the winding, dark road. Knockout is content to hang back for a moment, but not a moment longer. You dig your nails into the leather seats as he roars ahead, narrowly missing his opponents.

“How far is the finish line?” you yelp, squeezing your eyes shut.

“It’s a short circuit,” Knockout says casually. “So you better ask your questions.”

“What happened to Shockwave?” You try to keep your voice from wavering. Whether it was from the fear of being an unintentional passenger at over a hundred miles per hour or the thought of shadowplay, you don’t know quite yet.

The steering wheel jerks to the right and a rival car goes careening off-road. Knockout casually says, “When you found him, Shockwave was subject to a seriously high amount of voltage and damage enough to knock him into stasis. He probably wouldn’t ever wake up without medical attention. His circuits were fried, his insides were blasted, and it even affected his brain module.”

Knockout slams on the brakes and you throw up your hands instinctively-- he gracefully avoids a collision and regains the top speed that maintains his first place.

“I came to you looking for a suppressor module. It was probably knocked loose. It’s supposed to affect the emotional centers of a Cybertronian, and make them more subdued. Less radical. It was known as a personality adjustment but it backfired on the Institute. Shockwave became an unstoppable force driven by logic.”

“If you put it back,” you say, “how come it seems like he’s having emotions?”

Knockout huffs, slightly annoyed. “Obviously it’s not working very well.”

You dare to open your eyes and peek through the window-- but Knockout is ahead of the others, and all you see are flashes of trees and cliffs in his beams. It looks nothing like the flat and desert starting area. An unnatural silence fills the air. Even the noises of the amateur race cars seem muted in the background. You finally relax your shoulders and try to relax in the cool, sophisticated interior.

“Does he know?” Knockout finally asks. “Does he know that something is wrong?”

“I think so.” You take a deep breath. It is a shuddering, shaking sound. “Why-- why did this happen? Why--?”

Knockout’s voice softens even more. “It’s a game of politics, doll. Power and authority. Shockwave was… well, it’s not my place to say what he was like, but others saw him and his emotions as a threat.”

“So why would you put the suppressor back?” you demand.

“Shockwave has been the way he is for the past five million years,” Knockout replies. “Shadowplay has become an integral part of his nature. He probably doesn’t remember what it was like to have emotions… and he could become easily overwhelmed. Imagine it.”

The surroundings gradually return to an arid landscape. Silhouettes of saguaros embrace the night sky with long-reaching arms. A pinprick of light appears on the horizon. Time is running out. Knockout shows no sign of slowing down, even if he is leagues ahead of his competitors. Humans really had no fighting chance against the Decepticon.

“Ratchet says there’s a chance to reverse shadowplay,” you say quietly.

“There’s no guarantee that it would work. Or if Shockwave would recover completely from having his emotional relays tampered with _twice_.” Knockout speeds past the finish line then comes to a screeching stop past the cheering audience. Your seatbelt suddenly unbuckles, and the door pops open. A polite, meaningful message to leave. But when you grab the door handle, Knockout adds, “Besides, you haven’t asked the most important question.”

“What?”

“Does Shockwave want his emotions back? Is this something he wants?” The Decepticon hums. “Food for thought before you start ripping out circuits out of the big guy.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you exit and slam the door shut. Someone grabs your arm, spins you around, and thrusts a paper bag into your hand. “Hey, congrats on the race! Here’s your winnings--” Before you have a chance to protest, the stranger has melted back into the crowd, which finally welcomes the other racers a good solid minute after Knockout. You take a quick peek inside of the bag and then instantly pale. There’s at least a thousand bucks.

The Ashton Martin starts to roll away. “Congratulations, doll. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

You can’t imagine what a mech like Knockout would do with Earth currency. He’d probably use it as pillow stuffing or kindling. You crush the bag and shove it in the glove compartment. There’s plenty of charities that could use the cash. You’re back on the highway and heading towards the Autobot base before anyone can ask questions.

It’s a little more than an hour later when you roll into the base and park near the entrance. “How’s it going, doc?” you call out and head over to the hub. You lean against the railing, watching Ratchet repair a hairline fracture against Smokescreen’s wing-doors.

But you realize that Prowl is no longer lying on the medial berth, and that Smokescreen looks a bit stockier than usual, or that he must have changed his paint job, because--

Smokescreen-but-not-really-Smokescreen glances over his shoulder.

Piercing blue optics, even colder than Ratchet’s, bore into your frozen stance. The crimson chevron over his brow lines a stern, angry countenance. He doesn’t look surprised or bothered by these strange circumstances. Only wary. Thoughtful. Analytical. Like his psychological profile. Like Shockwave. “This is the one?” he asks in a low, husky voice.

Ratchet nods.

The ‘bot looks away. Disinterested. Indifferent. You don’t own a claim to his attention, but rejection stings a little.

Ratchet then steps back to his workshop table. You’re ready to turn away when he then extends a smaller welding torch and mask to you. The medic tilts his head towards the patient, whose back is covered with a litany of small, cosmetic fractures. You don the protective gear and hop over the railing, Prowl eyes you suspiciously as you near. “Relax,” you say to him, flicking on the torch. “I know what I’m doing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my writing, consider [taking a look](https://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com/kofi)?  



	12. Chapter 12

During your stay, you were witness to all the Autobots’ opinions with, or about, Prowl.

The once-Cybertron officer, just slightly taller than Bumblebee, doesn’t pretend that he is oblivious to the gossip. While Prowl could walk out at any time and disappear into the unknown, he remains in the med bay as Ratchet’s sullen patient. He was reluctant to let you work on his injuries, but you worked quickly and out-of-sight. _You won’t even know I’m here,_ you had told him. He only grimaced in return. He wasn’t used to the idea of humans yet.

Bulkhead is the most suspicious of the newcomer. Maybe it was a Wrecker mentality. Arcee briefly worked for Prowl and vouched for him, but refused to say anything else. The younger Smokescreen and Bumblebee had little to say, or beep. Wheeljack is nowhere to be found.

Eventually Optimus, Ultra Magnus, and Ratchet retreat for a private conference and then, it is just you and Prowl at the hub. Leaning against the railing, you notice Prowl wringing his hands together and flexing them. “Is everything okay?” you ask, looking pointedly at his discomfort.

“No,” he says. “My joints feel stiff.”

“Would you like me to take a look at them?”

Prowl shrugs. He wordlessly sits, hunched over on the berth, and watches you pick up a pen flashlight and a few tools. You hop up on the seat, carefully take his wrist, and guide it towards your lap. His every movement is restrained and cautious as if he’s afraid of touching or harming you. When you let go, he doesn’t pull away. You shine the light into the gaps between his digits.

“What do you think you’re going to do?” you ask, gently teasing a sliver of scrap from one of the mechanical couplings. “Are you gonna stay?”

“No.”

“How come?”

Prowl bristles.

“Hey, you don’t have to answer. I’m just curious. Not every day you get to meet a new ‘bot.” Another piece joins a small pile of scrap.” Prowl silently offers his other hand once you’re done with the first. It feels like you’re the mouse prying a thorn from the lion’s paw. Shockwave wasn’t remotely hostile when you treated him. However, Prowl seems more reluctant than belligerent.

Ratchet emerges from the conference. His expression betrays nothing as he sidles up to the med bay and starts working on the terminal. Without turning around, he reminds, “Your energon levels are still much lower than I’d like, and there are some symptoms of stasis sickness. I would recommend at least another cycle’s rest.”

“What did Prime decide?” Prowl asks.

The doctor checks the panel on his forearm nonchalantly. “Nothing yet. But I have an appointment soon and I’ve prepared a room for you elsewhere in the base.”

“Have you left me anything to read while I’m indisposed?” Prowl asks dryly. You maintain focus on your task, but it’s amusing to see more and more of Prowl’s personality.

“Datapad on the berth,” Ratchet replies with just as little mirth.

You set down the tools and look up at Prowl. He glances down, bright eyes as vibrant as a glacier’s hues, and then he blinks. “Thank you,” he says, and replaces his hands in his lap.

Ratchet seemingly notices your presence for the first time and looks at your petite form among the titans. The doctor’s jaw twitches slightly. “Just between us,” he says in a low, gravelly rumble, “Prowl… likely knows something about the Institute.” He sees the visceral surprise from you, and shock from Prowl, not too different reactions for the unexpected announcement. “Whatever you do, keep it under wraps,” Ratchet warns.

“Did you work for the Institute?” you demand.

“No, I--” Prowl stops short, his chevron dipping lower and lower as he makes a face. “What does an Earthling want with the Institute?”

Ratchet shoos you and Prowl away as his next patient (Smokescreen, for a physical checkup) approaches. “Gossip somewhere else!”

You catch up to the ‘bot before his giant strides take him beyond your reach. “Prowl, I have questions--"

“--but I’m not interested in talking.”

“What about quid pro quo? Favor for a favor?”

Prowl scoffs. You sense his disbelief from thirty feet up in the freaking air. “What kind of favor can you provide?’

The two of you glare at each other. You set your hands on your hips. “Aren’t you interested about why I know about the Institute? Or why I need information?” He narrows his eyes; yes, he is infinitely intrigued, but he fights against the urge to pursue curiosity, and inevitably fails. You say, “I want to know how to reverse shadowplay.”

* * *

The Autobots repurposed large storage rooms into their individual quarters within the military base. Some chose to leave their rooms bare and minimal and others decorated it with posters and trinkets. You never imagined Cybertronians could be sentimental, but you’re obviously proven wrong. Bulkhead has posters and ticket stubs stapled to the walls and Bumblebee is often listening to music from an old cassette player scrounged from the scrapyard. Even Ultra Magnus constructed an office space for all of his official business.

Prowl closes the door behind the two of you. His assigned quarters are, as expected, devoid of any furniture except for a berth, table, and chair. A door at the far side of the room probably leads to a private or shared washroom. He sits down heavily on the bed, adjusting his weight to relieve his aches and pains. You sit cross-legged against one of the table legs and look up at him. He has been quiet until now.

“You’re in contact with Shockwave,” Prowl finally says.

“Did Ratchet tell you?”

“No. He told me about the Decepticons on the planet. Shockwave is likely the only Cybertronian in this galaxy who’s undergone shadowplay. It’s not a simple cosmetic procedure. And doctors like Ratchet wouldn’t be talking about shadowplay so flagrantly.” The ‘bot exhales sharply. “It only makes sense.” Prowl leans forward on his knees and cocks his head. “So how’d you meet?”

“Like the others. Shockwave was badly damaged. I fixed him-- but apparently something went wrong.” You hold up a hand, remembering the heft and shape of the burnt module. “There was… a device which suppressed his emotional centers. It doesn’t work anymore, or if it does, it’s doing a poor job.”

“It sounds like everything is according to your plan,” says Prowl. “No more module. No more shadowplay.”

“Not like this. I want it done safely, if it’s possible. Others tell me that it’s dangerous to trigger his emotions all at once.”

Prowl agrees. “Before I tell you anything… you realize how foolhardy it is to work with Decepticons?” He sounds annoyed, exasperated, and shocked all at once.

You wave your hand. “Yes, I’ve already been lectured by Ratchet.”

“Evidently, he didn’t convince you.”

“Shockwave owes me,” you tell Prowl, whose frostbite gaze narrows, “and I think that means something to you.”

The Autobot rubs his strong chin thoughtfully. It looks as if he’s mulling over your words, but you suspect there’s much more to Prowl’s pensiveness. He considers possibilities. Opportunities. Any tactical advantage that would benefit his own gambits. He sighs again, then says, “You’re too naive. You’d help an alien race take over the world as long as a single act of charity made you feel worthwhile.”

Okay, so you weren’t expecting to be directly insulted. “’Morally inclined’?” As opposed to what?” you ask.

Prowl scowls. “You save Shockwave’s life and condemn a billion of your own. He might have created a toxin to wipe out all organic life on this planet.” He sounds disinterested, as if he wasn’t commenting on mass annihilation. “When you talk about favors, I bet you wouldn’t share the locations of the Decepticons. Not a single one of them.”

“I-- I can’t.”

“Because you refuse to betray their trust.” Prowl leans back. The corner of his lip tugs up into a smug smirk. “Shockwave must be really off his game.”

You think back to your first interaction with the cyclops. Blind and lost in the middle of a desert, he insisted on repaying your kindness. You had refused because, in your own words, you didn’t need favors because you didn’t have enemies. Now, as Prowl studies you like a pawn on the chess board, you realize that you’ll be in his debt.

“What’s your connection to the Institute?” you ask, slightly suspiciously. Before you agree to anything, you want to make sure Prowl’s as legitimate as he claims.

Prowl shakes his head dismissively. “I know enough. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

_He can’t be trusted._ It’s another voice speaking these thoughts. It’s the look of disgust on Wheeljack’s face when he first appeared with the unconscious ‘bot. It’s Bulkhead’s honest, gut feelings and Arcee’s hesitance. You thought Autobots were an honorable breed. There weren’t supposed to be skeletons in the closet-- and maybe there weren’t any. Maybe Prowl was the only one with secrets, and that’s why he was the only one who could help.

“Give me a cycle,” Prowl says to you. “I’ll look into shadowplay. All of it. If it can be reversed, I’ll find it. But--” He holds up a warning finger-- “even if it doesn’t work, even if there’s no ‘cure’, you still owe me a favor in the future. I won’t ask you for Decepticon locations or information. Anything else is on the table. Deal?”

You shut your eyes. The cyclops’s crimson eye burns in your memories like a lighthouse in the storm. “Deal.”

Prowl smiles.


	13. Chapter 13

Picking at the bandaids wrapped around your fingers, you lean against the truck hood and watch the mechanics pack up their tools and plastic sheets. The new garage door installation had been relatively painless, and they didn’t ask why its previous incarnation was torn to shreds. The shiny and unmarked doors stand out against the rest of the worn workshop.

Ratchet was not sorry to see you leave the Autobot base. While he enjoyed having another set of hands in the med bay, the doctor liked to commandeer his own space. Prowl was no longer on mandated rest, and he was likely in his quarters when you left earlier in the morning. You expected him to contact you as soon as possible.

Wheeljack, as usual, was back on the road. He’d given you a gentle nudge, a wink, and then the two of you split ways at the nearest highway. You’re not sure if you could live like him: Always on the move, with no want for a place to call home. This time, Wheeljack had no special distress beacon or mission in mind. He just wanted to drive.

You don’t take long to unpack your belongings. Sand had gathered in the corners of the room during your time away, so you pick up a dustpan and start cleaning. Fortunately all of your electronics and antique tools were still here. You tune the radio station to drown out any thoughts about shadowplay and the Institute.

When you’re satisfied with the state of the workshop, and the tense knot of anxiety in your stomach has loosened somewhat, you pick up Shockwave’s communicator and flick it one. “Shockwave, come in.” The device whines, then dissolves into a low, patient humming.

“This is Shockwave,” comes the stoic response.

“I’m home,” you say, reclining on the couch. “Safe and sound. How’s Starscream?”

“He is of little concern,” the Decepticon says calmly, “and he will not bring harm.”

“Well if that’s the case, you’re welcome to visit. Tonight is going to be me, snacks that give you heart attacks, and 2008’s _Australia_.” You stretch your legs out on the couch as if to make a point. You missed this personal freedom during your time with the Autobots. At least if you invited any mech into your space, everyone was playing by your rules.

There’s a sudden drumming noise rumbling through the building, as if hail was pelting your roof and walls. The weather had been completely clear five minutes earlier so your mind instantly goes to alien, or Cybertronian, causes. A miniature meteor shower. A freak storm. A hundred shrunken Bumblebees tap dancing without a sense of rhythm.

You shuffle over to the window and peer out carefully. It _looks_ like rain. _Alien rain?_ Your heart flutters as a space-bridge materializes, and two familiar silhouettes emerge from the illuminated dark. The garage door opens to invite Shockwave and the silent Soundwave. Both have rain dripping from their linear contours. Soundwave arches his thin body and his plates ripple, flicking off droplets in every direction.

Shockwave waits patiently as you wipe a rag along his sides. “What’s with the storm?” you demand. “Crazy timing, or something else?”

“Weather manipulation is quite simple. It was an opportune time to test portal navigation amidst atmosphere fluctuation. Which is why Soundwave is here,” the titan says, nodding at his companion. Soundwave has since snuck over to your idling television.

“Science never sleeps, huh?” You toss the towel aside and retreat to the kitchen area. Shockwave studies the new garage doors. There is the barest reflection of his crimson eye against its reflective surface. He’s drawn to the sound of crinkling bags as you haul an armful of snacks to the couch. “It’s going to be a very boring night,” you warn the Decepticons. “I’ll be staring at moving pictures for the next two hours.”

Soundwvae slowly turns his head as his blade-like fingers curl around the television. The blank look on his face fills you with unusual dread and anticipation. Like he’ll start blasting the _Seinfeld _theme song at any moment. After the harrowing stare, he slowly retreats behind the television and tucks his limbs under him. You hop on the couch and Shockwave reclines on the spacious workshop floor, distracted by a datapd in his hand.

He notices you staring at the massive canon resting against his leg. “Do you have an inquiry?” Shockwave asks.

“No,” you say quickly and hit the play button. You’ve seen the movie before, and the snacks taste all the same, but you seem unable to destress in what should have been a relaxing evening. Shockwave returns to his datapad. Soundwave blends into the shadows on the room save for the occasional violet glow of the auto detail. You stare at the screen without acknowledging the figures or landscape. “I changed my mind. I do have an inquiry.”

Shockwave tilts his head. “Proceed.”

“You’re… not like other mechs,” you begin hesitantly. “You’re built… different than the others. I learned a lot about Cybertronian anatomy, but I didn’t know if you were cast in a unique mold, or--"

“Cybertronians are not cast in a mold,” Shockwave says calmly. “They are forged or constructed cold, and neither of which are freely shared information in fear of categorization.” Seeing your panicked face, he holds up his hand and continues, “But this is important that you understand. Those who are constructed cold may have been created, but they unfailingly resemble Cybertronian anatomy. Forged mechs follow a genetic code which similarly does not deviate from the expected.”

The medical texts suggest that Cybertronians had the typical features of a head, body, arms, and legs. Variations in design and form were completely natural, which explained why Arcee was petite and lean or why Ultra Magnus towered over the Autobots. But no other mech had a fusion canon for an arm, or a cyclopean gaze…

Shockwave taps a finger against his helm. “There was a common practice upon both constructed and forged mechs. It was called _empurata_.”

The very word sends a cold tremor down your spine. Everything seems to melt away-- the textured couch, the sounds of the television, even the bright hanging lights. But his voice, which once threatened to deafen you, grounds and keeps you focused. A low, gravelly voice with the barest hint of gentleness.

“Empurata removes a Cybertronian’s head and hands,” Shockwave tells you. “It was meant to punish criminals and brand them as outcasts in society.”

“’Criminals’?”

His optic shift and refocus. “Whoever defied powerful figures were deemed criminals. They affected my emotional modules and removed my head and hands simultaneously.” Shockwave briefly checks his canon and cable. “When I joined the Decepticons, Megatron offered to return my hands. By that time, the war had begun. It seemed logical to opt for an offensive alternative.”

You find yourself standing in front of Shockwave, movie and snacks and relaxation abandoned. Somewhere in the darkness, Soundwave listens, as he always does. You gaze up at the titan. He doesn’t seem regretful or upset, so pity would be useless. You rest a hand on the back of his massive one.

“I’m sorry,” you say to him. “Just because it happened centuries ago doesn’t make it right. I’m sorry that they took from you.”

Shockwave moves, so that your hand rests in his palm. He blinks at you. “I acknowledge the sentiment.”

“If I… if I found a way to reverse what they did to your emotions,” you murmur, and he leans closer to hear every audible word, “would you accept? Would this be something that you want?”

“Is it possible?”

“It could be.” You look up, and you are closer to Shockwave than ever before. You have an inexplicable urge to caress his helm, and so you do. You trail your fingers along the crest of his head, down the sides, and across his fins. His crimson eye flutter, then close slightly. “I want to help. So… if this is something that you want, you just let me know.”

“It has been a long time since I truly felt,” Shockwave admits. “I will need to… think.”

Truth be told, if the Decepticon listened to the pulsing in his nerves or the way his mind dissolves into static when he feels your impossibly soft touch, he would demand to know more. The curiosity rails against all manners of logic-- and if he obeyed how his Spark whispers to him, he would yield, he would completely surrender, to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! I apologize for the late upload but as it turns out, my writing time often overlaps with ‘percy the cat needs attention’ time.
> 
> This wraps up the biweekly uploads for January and February. I'll be taking the month of March to fufill requests but I'll return after I finish requests or in April, whichever comes sooner. In the meantime, come hang out with me at [my tumblr](https://deviousmiracle88.tumblr.com).  
See y'all soon!


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